Last Friday night, I was writing in bed. My husband was beside me watching old episodes of The Big Bang Theory, or as I like to say, he was visiting with his “people.” The kids were numbing their brains on the computer, and the dogs were running around, tugging on a sock and play fighting. I wasn’t paying much attention because I was deep into writing a post for this blog.
I had had four Crystal Lights (I am big into the cheery pomegranate one now), and so my teeming bladder kept poking at my concentration. In pain and almost unable to walk, I hit SAVE and headed to the water closet (that’s European for bathroom). When I got out of bed, I saw something on the floor. I thought it was a stuffed animal the dogs were torturing. I didn’t have on my glasses so I moved closer to see it. That’s when my brain registered. “Girl, that ain’t no stuffed animal. You got yourself there a genuine opossum playing dead right there on your bedroom floor.”
I screamed my very girly scream and jumped on the bed. My husband, annoyed that I interrupted his time with his “people,” said, “What? Why are you screaming?” I hadn’t seen a opossum for years, and I was a wee bit shocked so I didn’t answer right away, primarily because my heart was racing like hyperventilating ballerina at her first recital. I just kept pointing, which annoyed Mike more because he had to move from his comfort zone of TV watching. Finally, I said, “There’s a opossum in our bedroom.”